Broken
by eng.ski
Summary: The first time she wakes, Quinn can't even open her eyes. She actually doesn't even try; her eyelids feel like lead. But when she attempts to inhale her first waking breath... Post 3x14; Quinn's POV.


Reupload since my original summary included "shit" and wasn't G-rated. Le sigh.

.. .. ..

The first time she wakes, Quinn can't even open her eyes. She actually doesn't even try; her eyelids feel like lead. But when she attempts to inhale her first waking breath, it all goes to shit. Quinn finally registers the no-longer steady beeping in the white-noise of the background accompanied by the scraping of metal chair legs against tile as she gags and gasps for breath, her hands flailing as a myriad of voices takes up the chorus. Orders are barked and Quinn attempts to gasp, but only chokes, at the pinch of pain when her right hand connects with an i.v.'s chord, cleanly ripping it from its home embedded beneath her skin. Now, the voices are louder and her wrists are being held down and someone in the room orders "push it" and Quinn's mind instantly goes to Rachel. Rachel dancing in McKinley's gymnasium, grinding, those kneepads and ridiculous suspenders, and all Quinn wants to do is laugh, but she's still gagging, fighting against the tube in her throat and the pain in her chest, but finally, the drugs they push start to send her under, out of the barely-there fuzzy consciousness she barely regained. But before she's gone, Quinn hears it. Her name breathed by the voice of an angel. The voice Quinn so desperately wants to sing just for her.

The second time Quinn wakes, the doctors are at least prepared as her wrists are restrained and this awakening appears to be a lot more controlled and her lungs and airways are finally healed enough to function without the respirator. Quinn still gags, though, as she struggles to keep her newly opened eyes, well, _open_ against the harsh glare of the hospital's fluorescent institutional lighting. As she blinks the burn away, Rachel's voice is in her ear. It whispers not to panic, that they're just going to remove the tube from her throat. It's painful and Quinn coughs, violently, before trying to rasp out, "R- Rach-", but a plastic straw is shoved in her mouth and Quinn listens to her mother's voice instruct, "Drink, Quinnie and go back to sleep, baby girl." Her mother's voice is thick with emotion and Quinn just wants to tell her it's okay. She wants to put up that Fabray façade, once again be strong for the both of them, but she can't. Quinn can't because she's not strong; she's broken. She can't even keep her eyes open long enough for the visions of blonde and brunette hair to stop blurring together, and she falls back to sleep as a thumbs soothes the angry skin of her right wrist that was burned as she pulled against the restraints.

The first time Quinn cries isn't when she sees the scarring along the left side of her face, the distinct, raised pink ridges that now grace her regal features. Though her mother breaks down when the doctors inform them of her temporary paralysis, Quinn doesn't cry then, either. Instead, she slowly nods, choosing to focus on the key word: temporary, and the warm, tanned hand that holds her own and has been holding on, has kept holding on for the past week.

Quinn first cries late one evening when that hand leaves hers and the feeling of cool metal slides across her warm palm, waking her from a light sleep. She stirs, forcing her eyes to blink beyond the fog as she croaks out a quiet, "Rachel?" waiting for her anchor, what's kept her steady and grounded and not willing to give up these past few days to turn back towards the bed, and when she does, Quinn sees it. She sees the engagement ring gleam, still shiny as ever, in the street lights that filter through the blinds of the single window in Quinn's room. Quinn grimaces as she tries to shift, tries to turn away from the reminder of what she can't have because Finn _Fucking_ Hudson put a ring on it.

But Rachel, _sweet_ Rachel thinks Quinn's pained expression is due to actual physical pain, and Quinn thinks maybe it is because her chest aches and it once again hurts to breathe, so Rachel's small hands reach to press the morphine drip. Quinn smacks her hand away, forcing a "no" out through gritted teeth. The negative is weaker than intended, but there's a malice laced with Quinn's tone that hasn't been present in months, maybe even a year and as Rachel shrinks back, chin quivering, Quinn closes her eyes against the tears, screwing them shut so tight until colors, and ironically enough stars, burst forth behind the darkness of her lids. And even though she's not sure how it's possible, because it broke when they announced their engagement during glee, it cracked just a bit more when her invitation and chance to be a part of the "happy" day was revoked, it splintered when they revealed right before the performance that the ceremony would take place that evening, and it all but stopped beating in the hallway when Rachel confirmed whom she was singing to, Quinn's certain her heart breaks just a little bit more in this moment. She continues to cry, curled into her own body, her broken heart her penance, her cross to bear for all the names, taunts, and mistakes.

The next day, the only sign of her breakdown is a slight redness around the rims of her eyes and as the nurse who is helping her prepare for this day's surgery – the first attempt to repair some of her spinal cord damage – readies to leave, Quinn asks to borrow the black Sharpie hooked into the collar of her scrubs. Once alone, Quinn uncaps the marker. She's read about how surgical patients, and even their doctors, write notes on their bodies before a surgery indicating explicitly (remove the RIGHT kidney) what should and shouldn't be done. So with a shaky hand, Quinn transcribes "FIX ME" in big, bold letters right above her left breast.


End file.
